


Missing Scenes - Dean Fogg Makes A Change

by Ranmaru



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, pre-1x1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 01:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranmaru/pseuds/Ranmaru
Summary: Eliza isn't the only one who can make a change to the timeline.





	Missing Scenes - Dean Fogg Makes A Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moit/gifts).



> My second foray in The Magicians fandom.
> 
> Still reeling from the S4 finale and wanted to post something a little light-hearted and hopeful from back in S1, or really pre-1x1. 
> 
> Unbeta'd
> 
> For Moit.

 

Being the Dean of a University was never an easy job. Politics and drama came from both staff and students, it was unavoidable. Being the Dean of a magical University like Brakebills was a drink of a higher alcohol content altogether. It wasn’t just the politics and drama but the students turning into niffins, disappearing by the class, and inviting goddamned Beasts through portals that should never be opened the in first place. And don’t get him started on the staff antics...

Henry Fogg was getting tired of rehashing the same events because one young woman couldn’t kill her own brother. Maybe it was different for someone with siblings, but as an only child Henry was finding it increasingly difficult to find any sympathy for Jane ‘no call me Eliza so I can be mysterious and wave my special goddamned watch at you and fuck with time as I see fit no matter how much it hurts you to see your students die over and over and over again’ Chatwin.

He looked down at the scrap of paper with her flowing script, similar to the other ones she’d left for him once he’d admitted that he knew what she was doing with each turn of her watch dial. The one change she made to each timeline, the one that could be the difference between terrible death and triumph over evil, written down like a note to yourself not to forget the bread on your way home.

_Julia Wicker fails the Exam._

To say he was outraged at such a thing was like saying he enjoyed an occasional drink to deal with the day. An understatement of such magnitude that he’d had to lock his office doors and yell out reassurances that he was ‘fine, just fine’ while he painstakingly repaired his desk and put the books and papers scattered around the room back to rights. The glass decanters holding his liquid sanity had been left untouched by his anger until he poured a glass to soothe his tumultuous emotions.

He wasn’t going to walk down that memory lane, not only was it painful to consider such a gifted woman being rejected by the school she’d loved so well so many times, but he was just too goddamn drunk - which was reason enough, he later thought, for what he did next.

Eliot Waugh was a six foot plus pain in the ass with a staggering amount of magical ability that he ignored in favor of creating (admittedly delicious) cocktails and single-handedly lowering the student body grade point average by hosting parties that made most of the staff consider using glamours to attend and relive their own schools years with a dash of hedonism that most likely had been missing until Eliot was accepted to Brakebills.

Sitting on the other side of the imposing Dean’s Desk, Eliot gave the appearance of boredom while his eyes remained alert and flickered around the room in what Henry knew was less curiosity and more like casing the joint. He bet himself a bottle of Maker’s Mark that before day’s end he’d find a book missing from his locked cabinet, or, and this was more likely, one of the bottles from the locked and _warded_ cabinet containing his stock of top shelf whiskey.

“Henry, to what do I owe the honor of your summons?” Eliot said, smiling slightly. He was, as always, immaculately put together, though the riot of colors disguised as a button down shirt was distracting. Which was most likely the point, Henry realized, when he just caught the subtle movements of Eliot’s fingers before they stilled. Not quite a spell, something like a physical reminder to do something later. A spell being considered and hopefully discarded.

Holding back a sigh, and already mourning the loss of a bottle of something too expensive to be properly enjoyed by a student, even Eliot, Henry cleared his throat to make sure he had Eliot’s attention. “It is Exam Day.”

“Ah, a new flock of chicks for the magical funny farm.” Eliot placed a hand over his heart. “Is this where you tell me to keep the barn doors closed and away from -”

“This is where I ask you to greet one of the students and make sure he arrives at the Exam room on time.”

Eliot’s mouth hung open for just long enough that he flushed in embarrassment and pressed his lips together, looking over Henry’s shoulder. Henry waited for another smart-ass remark, but when Eliot remained silent, he nodded and pushed a folder over. The picture of a young man was paper-clipped to the front. A pretty young man in his twenties with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and floppy blond hair that needed to be cut. Putting the picture outside of the folder had been deliberate, and when Eliot’s gaze went from idle curiosity to intense focus Henry knew he’d made the right choice.

Eliza wasn’t the only one who could make changes.

“His name is Quentin Coldwater, and I believe he has what it takes if he doesn’t trip past the portal I’ve set for him and fall into a dumpster,” Henry said, only slightly exaggerating his fear that Bob would find himself talking to a Quentin Coldwater-shaped wall of denial, which meant powering up the additional signs Henry had ready to tease Quentin’s imagination just enough to find the portal. The real fear was that Quentin’s mental state was still so fragile that, rather than follow the magic, he would convince himself he needed another stay in the hospital.

“And you want me to…” Eliot reached for the folder but paused before he actually touched it. He met Henry’s eyes. “Why me?”

What he wanted to say was, “Because Quentin lives longer when you’re friends and I’m tired of watching you all die before you have the chance to live.” What Henry did say was, “Eliot, of all the students I have welcomed to Brakebills, you have somehow managed in two years to cement my commitment to alcoholism.” At this Eliot’s face managed to express pride, guilt, amusement, and puzzlement all at once. “And if I have read this new student correctly, he might just do the same for you.”

Eliot’s gaze dropped to the picture and he picked up the folder, frowning. “So this is just desserts?” he asked, cautiously opening the folder, eyes scanning the first page which was simply the intake information.

“Or he’ll be a good influence and I will have the pleasure of speaking to a sober version of Eliot Waugh at some point in the future.” If there was one; Henry was half-way convinced a sober Eliot would be as easy to find as a sober Henry.

Eliot, one hand holding up the first page to read the second, glanced up with a scowl. “Pot-kettle, Henry.”

Henry had long since given up trying to convince Eliot to call him Dean. It was unsettling, and not a little heartbreaking, to understand that Eliot had faced more than his share of intimidation to be cowed by it any longer. “In any case, you will meet Mister Coldwater near the hedges at the border of the grand lawn and make sure he isn’t late to the Exam.”

Eliot twitched, opened his mouth, and then closed it again, staring hard at whatever he was reading. “Literature,” he murmured, and then looked up with a mischievous smile before sliding the file across the desk. Henry silently asked for Quentin’s forgiveness. The friendship formed between the two young men rarely began before the third week of classes, when Eliot would literally run into Quentin who was reading as he walked. The encounter inevitably set in motion a friendship that turned out to be the best or worst thing to happen to either of them in every timeline that meeting happened in. Three terrible times that encounter was missed; those timelines Henry remembered only as nightmares. No one lived long enough for it to matter, and the deaths were too bloody to try. To Henry’s way of thinking, if the friendship that could hold off death a little longer due to their need to protect each other began sooner, was given more time to mature before the Beast destroyed what was left of their innocence, then so be it.

The unholy sparkle in Eliot’s eyes did cause him a moment of regret for what he was sure would be more damage to his liver due to millennial drama.

“I don’t want to know,” Henry said, waving Eliot away after handing him the card with Quentin’s name printed on one side, the University logo on the other. The fact that Eliot left without another word was reason enough for another drink.

 


End file.
